Rock My Socks
by hotoffthefryer
Summary: Gossip says that the Populars are wearing fake again next season. Maybe I'll try it, but I'm sure I'd look trashy. I heard it makes the everywhere area look ugly. But, it fits great on Karin. Really highlights her thunder thighs. AU high-SS, SI/ST, NH, NT
1. I Swear I'm Listening

**Rock my Socks**

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><p>AN: So, I'm going through this time period wherein plot bunnies are, like, running rampant in my brain and procreating with my writing genius and creating story blurbs. Then they just leave me with a half finished blurb that I'm supposed to turn into magnificence. Gosh, feel my pain, bros.

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto!

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><p><em>Hey BITCHES! I'm BAAACK, <em>

_ (and on the freaking move)_

According to the tally system that's been enlisted since three years ago, this would be the thirty first official moving day. Honestly, I don't understand it _at all_. Of course partially—in that back corner of my brain, way in the back with the dusty stuff and mold and spiders that people would rather not touch and otherwise associate themselves with (read: me)—I see why it is we must move so very much.

You see, Daddy is a lawyer. But not some lawyer that anybody can drop a few Benjamin dollars on and call it a day. He's, like, an important people lawyer. For celebrities and junk. I'm sure you don't care. But I do. These rich snobs are the reason why I've moved away from a home that I just started getting used to for the _thirty first _time.

For reals, though, I should just give up the dream that I can stay in a place long enough to make friends. It's like, not going to happen. Just saying.

(Not that I need friends, anyway. I have my fingers and markers, and we can totally get ourselves a little one-on-one deep heart-to-heart convo going on here, Thumb. You know you want to get to know me better. I'm that shit and, yes, now that you mention it, I do attract fleas.)

_With much love for my thugs, _

SOCKYbaby3-28

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><p><strong>Chapter One:<strong>

_I Swear I'm Listening._

(Now, what were you saying about the blah blah blah boring; OMG you're so atrocious; what's wrong your face; your female-stache, please meet a freaking razor; can you please invest in deodorant it smells like rat, again?)

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><p>:)<p>

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><p>I have a sister and her name is Peach Tree.<p>

Just kidding, we don't live in a freaking tribe. STEREOTYPE

But, no offense to all of those people out there that I've probably offended, but, whatever; I know I've offended you and because I am too prideful and awesomely to offer an apology, you should just take what I offer and know that I'm deeply apologetic. You know. Deep down in there. Somewhere. Like in the basement beneath the basement where gremlins live. Yep. There is where you will find my apology.

I digress, however, for I must return to the tale of which I was beginning to tell that was of my sister.

Her name is Momoko, which translates to Peach Tree or Peach Child or something to do with those furry little juicy round fruits. She's like three years older than me, being nineteen and whatnot, totally relishing in the adulthood life of partying at clubs but not legally being allowed to drink alcohol—which she really does anyway, truth be announced to my parents one of these days—and having sex whenever she wants and whatnot. Despite her new found ideas on growing up and freedom, she still lives with us.

Us being those born of normal circumstances and not out of eggs.

Like spawn.

Momoko doesn't seem to understand that I, the ever-awesomesauce-amazing-goddess-rock starlet Sakura that I so humbly am, don't like people barging into my room at four in the morning after a rushed Sunday afternoon of packing and listening to stupid movers ask where the refrigerator goes when it so obviously belongs in the kitchen. I hate this place already, like, where else would a refrigerator go?

(In my pants.)

When I heard the loud blowing sound of my—brand new, salon-certified, sleek and sophisticated, IDK expensive that I bought with my own _money_—blow dryer blaring from what I assumed was my new bathroom, my eyes cranked open. Stupid bitch doing loud things while her angel of a sister is trying to get her sleep in before she has to go to school in a few hours. I bundled my thin sheets around my body in a sort of mummy sort of gorgeous (psh, I am all the way gorgeous, I _am_ working it) wrap and stomp toward the noise.

"Oh, dear, darling sister, what are you busying yourself with in my inhabitance at such an early hour?" I say, though it really comes out like, "Ugh, you're such a ho, why are you blow drying your stupid coral colored hair in my fucking bathroom; turn your fat ass around and let the doorknob hit you where my fist will split you."

…ahem. Dear, golly, gee, it seems I have unleashed the beast that is my temper. Darn. I really must change that lock.

Momoko stares at me incredulously through her icy blue eyes, pausing in the drying process only to shut off the machine. She wraps the cord around the handle of the sleek blow dryer at a painstakingly slow pace, watching each coil with concentrated precision, making sure every row lined up, perfectly parallel with the last. I find myself drawn into the process hypnotically. When she juts it into my chest, I jump back instinctively.

I hesitantly reach for the thing and growl when it's ripped away quickly.

"Bitch," I bite out, narrowing my eyes.

She shrugs, "Whore."

My mouth tightens into a line because I am really trying to hold it all in. I mean, how am I the whore? Let's be honest here, people. I don't walk out my house in a denim miniskirt, stilettos, and a thong. I don't wear a cheetah print bra as a shirt and pull it off as such, saying that it's okay to wear out as long as you have a _sheer _cover up on top. Nope. I must have it twisted and should schedule an appointment with my eye doctor immediately. I look her over one final time, watching as she fiddles with her blown straight hair, pursing her lips. She's probably trying to make her fat face look less disgusting.

Boom. Explosion. Firework in your pants.

"At least people come to my corner," I mutter quickly, slamming the bathroom door as soon as the words leave my mouth. I then sprint for a mountain of boxes and push them quickly toward the closed door, blocking the exit of the (now screaming) banshee. She pounds on the door and screams death threats as I slide into my bed, snuggling into the comfort.

Pissed off, trapped Momoko. Just what I like to hear in the wee hours of daylight. Suck on that cherry flavored victory, Peach Tree.

* * *

><p>"I found your sister in the most interesting of places this morning."<p>

Thanks so much for the neutral, non-accusing conversation starter, Mom.

I shake the last of the Lucky Charms in my bowl and groan when all I see left are those gross little cardboard flavored booger shaped non-sugary cereal bits. You'd think manufacturers would realize that nobody eats those things and just jam-pack the red box of deliciousness with seventy-five percent marshmallows and twenty-five percent gross cardboard. I mean, the idea of fifty-fifty is so off that you actually have to dig for the good stuff and they _always _run out first. That ends the box, like, five bowls earlier than it would've lived if there were more charms mixed in there.

My face darkens further when four marshmallows tumble out. How wonderful. These four charms are definitely going to put me on the lucky radar. Gawd, is the world out to get me, or is it just the leprechauns hating meg hard on me? I think that would be the second, bitches!

I plop down across my mother and bite the inside of my mouth, pouring in some two percent fat milk. Sometimes I wonder how in the world the people know how much fat is in liquid—like seriously—but then I realize that I really don't care.

"Really now, Kaa-san? Where did you find it?"

Both my sarcasm and reference to my sister are done daily and purposefully. It'll become cheery sarcasm once the day progresses for right now I am just like BLAH. Pre-coffee morning and whatnot.

My mother furrows her brows. "Sakura! She is your elder sister and you will treat her as such."

I nod, murmuring some sounds that sound understanding and reassuring as I spoon some cereal into my mouth. For the record, it's gross. Just in case you didn't read that one part explaining the booger shaped cardboard. You are so welcome.

"I found her in your bathroom, door blockaded by moving boxes."

"That would be correct," I agree, chewing the cereal. I lay my head on my hand and stare at my birth giver blankly.

She turns all red like old people do when they're upset and I swear, I see her mouth moving, but, really, the words aren't reaching my ears so I enact the 'Nod Every Few Seconds and Mumble a Couple _Uh huh_s' propaganda.

You know you're jealous that it works when I do it and it ultimately fails whenever you do it. But, you know, it's okay. Everybody is good at what they do and it just so happens that I'm fantastic at acting like I care in a way that shows that I really don't care, but, since I'm acting like I do care, people don't say anything. It is an art form, and practice does make perfect in the end.

Don't give up. I believe that one day, you'll get there. Sincerely.

* * *

><p>I sip the Frappuccino, enjoying thecocoa flavor slipping down my throat. The cold coffee bean sends shivers down my spine and I sigh happily, kicking my legs on the ledge of the school's balcony edge, stairs next to me. It's been too long since I enjoyed the true delicacy that is coffee, too long since chocolate lit my taste buds in ecstasy. I feel the need to blog.<p>

…

Shut the fuck up, it's a problem, I know; I've been pretending to go to therapy for the past three months. GAWD. Would you mind your own business? Oh, I forgot. _You don't have any. _

Yes, that is I distinguishing the fire on your arm for you were just _burned_.

…

But, anyway, as I was saying, I need to blog.

You see, I haven't blogged since we left America. And, psh, the airplane we were in didn't have any Wi-Fi—dear god, somebody tell them to fly into the 21st century, _please_—so that was like a whole IDK 18 hours without blogging rights.

Eighteen hours with Peach Tree, without blogs, texts, or anything that has to do with my ever-wonderful iPhone is pure torture. Plus I had the middle seat in coach—since a-pair-rent-lee my super douche bag father (otherwise known as the reason we were even on the freaking plane in the freaking first place) isn't good enough for 1st class—between Momoko and this fat woman who took up half my seat anyway.

So. Even though my pretend therapist has been telling me that I should pretend stop blogging to get over my pretend problem (since we all know that doesn't exist) I'm going to for real blog.

About this crappy school.

It's called Konoha Preparatory Academy. Or KPA. Which is really stupid. I mean, the first thing I thought of was CPA—from Zoey 101, you know, with Britney Spears's sister—and I was like, oh, okay, this place could be cool if they have motorized scooters and a beach right off campus.

BUT NO.

We're in the middle of mainland freaking Japan and the only thing semi-interesting/distracting about the scenery—that is nothing but a forest of trees—is the really hot Japanese guys. But half of them sorta look like those androgynous females, so, I'm here like, OMG, so can you help me around? Eyelash bat.

And then they're like: "I'm not _gay_."

So then I'm like: "Ohhhhh…."

That has happened like fourteen times already and, even though I know I prefer dicks, I'm starting to question my ability to differentiate them from chicks.

But I digress.

KPA isn't really that bad. I mean, everyone speaks really good Japanese and I'm here barely knowing the basics and my accent _sucks_. I sound stupid and so stereotypical and like I should be in some remedial class. I'm smart, I swear, I'm just from America and think that _everyone _should speak English!

…

"Yes?" I ask, barely looking up from my phone screen. My thumb movement to text speed ratio slowed greatly, much thanks to the giant standing over me and totally blocking all of my sunlight. I begin to think that this person is deaf and socially stupid. Who doesn't understand the personal bubble theory? He's totally popping my bubble.

The ho.

I push POST on my blog page, standing up simultaneously. I dust off the atrocious uniform skirt as I quarry my battle tactic. Should I let it slide?

I have half of a mind to let it all loose, since I was blogging and all, but, I must make friends. I clear my throat, and, with as much dignity as I can manage, I reach in my backpack and pull out an English to Japanese dictionary.

My face scrunches together in concentration. "Ohayo," I blurt out, eyes narrowing. Okay, that means good morning…I glance toward the barely risen sun. So far so good. I flip through some more pages, biting my bottom lip. "Amerika kara kimashita..."

Just as I begin sifting through more pages, therefore proving that I really am from America, the dictionary is snatched from my hands.

"I speak English."

My face folds into a grimace before falling flat.

I'm so happy that he—super hot McStudMuffin—speaks my language.

(This Japan thing is seriously _not _working out.)

((But it's obvious that _he_ is. :DDDDD))

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><p>AN: _Review!_

~hotoffthefryer


	2. Responding Is Just Too Much Work

**Rock My Socks**

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><p><strong>Dear People Who Care About My Life,<strong>

So, I've never been so ecstatic to see English on my schedule before. I mean…sure, I have to take like, Remedial Japanese, but whatever, English is there and I WILL EXCEED EXPECTATIONS.

Mark my words, put my palm on the bibble, and take me to court, ho. I wanna see JERRY SPRINGER and prove his ass wrong for once. The results are so in, Maury, and guess what; I _am_ your _father_, bitch.

I'm that sure that **it'll happen. Yeah, I pulled out the Sharpie for that one. **

(And not because I have an unfair advantage or anything of the like, cuz, cha, that's not _fair_ or anything, like, cha, I've been taking and speaking English since _**practical birth**_.)

McStudMuffin is in my English class, too. He's totes been checking me out hardcore and I've been doing that cute thing when you pretend not to notice but ever so casually sitting up straighter and stick out your boobs and butt more. I mean, gawd, I know I'm meg attractive and all, but, eh-scuse-muh, have some decency with your ogling, plxxzzz.

IT'S RIDQLOUS.

(By the way, I'm starting warm up to this school. They have a Panda Express and Dairy Queen _inside the cafeteria_. I mean, psh, that is amazing and I don't even have any words. NO. WORDS.)

~SOCKYbaby3-28

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><p><em><strong>Chapter Two<strong>_

Responding is Just Too Much Work

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><p>(I mean, I have to think up some sort of response that is socially appropriate, open my mouth, move my tongue, try not to breathe during the whole response time—since we all know breathing while talking will only result in choking—and that is far too hard. I'm not ignoring you. I'm just being lazy.)<p>

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><p>:)<p>

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><p>My English teacher's name is Kakashi and his name means scarecrow.<p>

Just kidding. I totally told a lie. JAY-freaking-KAY.

(Besides, I would never start two chapters in my life the same exact way because, _hello_, my life is amazing and so worth things original and I swear to Bejeezus you will never find two identical sentences unless you look REALLY hard. Which you will never do, because if you do and happen to prove me wrong, your goldfish will spontaneously combust. And by spontaneously, I mean in your face. Bitch.)

But, no, seriously, his name is really Kakashi, and, if my Japanese class with all the rest of the mentally challenged retards back-slash fifth year seniors back-slash Juvenile Delinquents is paying off any—you know, beside teaching me how to pierce yourself with kitchen scissors—it should mean scarecrow. Or something like that.

Maybe.

Not that it really matters right now, because, hallelujah, I'm in English. YEAH.

Okay, so, this class doesn't seem so bad. First, I think I like the teacher. I showed up fifteen plus minutes late to class—and not because I couldn't read the signs that pointed me to all the classes and room numbers or anything silly like that, psh, I'm intelligent—and the instructor wasn't even there yet. Like, _fifteen minutes tardy _and the teach isn't even there to mark me late?

I was about ready to piss unicorns and rainbows. From my pants.

There was only one seat left, too, and he-he-he, giggle, guess who it was in front of?

I've been doing some serious research all day on this guy, and really surprised myself with how quickly I learned how to ask: Who's the hot Emo-looking guy? So honest, it only took me like three people to memorize the sequence and, psh, by now, I totally sound legit whenever I ask who SASUKE UCHIHA is.

Yeah. I found out his name and so much more information.

(This redhead girl, you know, she's in the back totally being a slut with this blue dude who is **seriously** lacking Vitamin D, gave me all this info. After hearing my crap accent, she was all, oh; you're from America, except she said it in American so I totally understood her and all, so I was like, "OH EM GEE, and yes." And then she spilled all these details for me and wrote them down on this pretty pink paper and, if I weren't a total wuss, I would stop writing in my journal, for lack of cell phone service, and _talk to her_. I mean, friend making has got to happen some time, right? But I'm a loser by nature, I can't help it; I'm a junior in high school and have a diary for Jake's Sake.)

I got his address, his cell phone number, good calling hours, when he's most likely to be seen where, and his _class_ _schedule_. I mean, I even got the code to enter to join this online 'Sasuke-kun Club' on KPA's little social networking website. Like, this dude is the real shit.

…

I'M SO EXCITED. MAYBE ME AND THIS REDHEAD CAN BE FRIENDS!

…

But, back to the present and things in life that actually matter beside Mr. McHottie behind me.

Kakashi—he prefers to be called Kakashi because, like, he's cool like that—is drawling about the benefits of knowing a second language these days, especially English. Then, he goes on to point out that, even though America is falling in power (EX-CUZE-MEE!), their influence will forever impact the world (That's more like it, educator), and many cultures have melted into the nation, and you never know when you can bridge a language barrier with English.

I'm bored by this whole speech mostly because he's saying it in Japanese and I only catch about three words, those being Hello and I am. I had to lean into home-girl-beside-me's desk to catch a synopsis of the speech, which, the little nerd she is, she wrote in English.

I glance around the class and see that I, unlike home-girl-beside-me-who-is-doing-the-absolute-most, have the right emotion going for me. Everyone else is either trying to stay awake, or has given up on that already, judging by Pineapple Head.

BT-Dubs, I really need to work on retaining names. I've heard so many today, and have put so much more effort into making a nickname than actually memorizing the real thing. I can just see myself in a really deep conversation with Minnie Mouse, over there, and then, right when she gets to the part where her cat dies, I call her Minnie Mouse. Not only does it completely ruin the somber veil that had fallen over us, but it makes her burst into even more tears because, "Gerald used to love mice!"

Ahem.

At least I moved here in the beginning of the year, so as to not get butchered with all this crap when everyone has already established themselves for the school year. Everyone is still kind of adjusting from the switch from summer to prison, so, I can just adjust with them. I'm sure that, at least in this class, the whole language issue won't be a problem, and maybe I can trade Japanese lessons for English lessons, thus speeding up the buddy budding process.

Hopefully.

"Class, can anyone tell me what today is?"

Kakashi's voice suddenly gets louder, shaking most of the students out of their dazed state. My gel pen skitters on the page, making a really long cross on my 'T', and wasting so much ink. Before I get angry—because those bitches are expensive!—I notice that there is a pretty envelope on my desk. It has a bow, and curly letters are written in blue glitter pen. I look around me and notice Helpful Slut smiling in my direction, gesturing for me to get on with it.

Deep down inside, I'm as happy as that kid who pees on Santa's lap at the mall every year. But, on the outside, I act like I'm totally used to getting notes wrapped in bows that suspiciously look like invitations to things that people need to be invited to like, I don't know, it's right on the tip of my tongue: PARTIES.

(Okay, so, maybe I'm not containing my excitement very well, and, yes, maybe, a little dribble of pee just exited me. I've been laying hints all page. I have to piss, forserious.)

But, before I can raise my hand and ask for a pass, I must read my invitation.

_Dear Pinky, _

_You've been invited to, what I like to call, The List. _

_You don't want to be there. Because bitches on The List die. _

_ With much Love, _

_ Karin_

I read the paper over three times, but, really, the only thing I have left to question is where I can find this list at. I don't know what I did to get on it. I don't want to be on it. No…I didn't do anything weird today, did I? I'm just being myself on this wonderful first day of school. Not really making a scene or anything. What could I have possibly done? Is it because I'm so amazing? Is it because I'm gorgeous? Is it—snickers from the back room make the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall.

As I turn around, ruby red eyes clash with my own, frantic emerald gems. The shivers her determined stare and cocky smirk send up my spine are no joke. I yelp and I flip around so fast that I hardly noticed that I successfully caught the attention of the whole classroom, thus ripping it away from Kakashi, and snapping it onto myself. In case, you didn't catch that: I now I have everyone staring at me, that pink headed girl, yeah, the one that's hyperventilating because she is apparently on a list.

BUT THEIR STARES DON'T MATTER.

I have to erase my name off this list.

* * *

><p>"It's not really a list."<p>

"Totally figurative."

"She's just trying to scare you."

Well, it's working, thanks!

I'm huddled in the Girls' bathroom Handicap stall with three of my classmates.

One I recognize immediately as Minnie—I mean, TenTen; her name is TenTen. She is tall and obviously athletic, sporting soccer shorts that show toned, tanned legs that I am totally envious of underneath all of this fear that I am currently harboring. She's about four inches taller than me, towering at an all might five foot eight inches, and seems like the trustworthy type. Loyal, I mean. Chocolate brown hair is twisted into traditional twin buns, and her eyes are almost, if not, the same color as her hair.

Next is the blonde, or the one that dragged me into here as soon as the bell rang. It wasn't very much against my will, since I had to go anyway and I probably wouldn't have found the bathroom without her 'help'. I rub my arm subconsciously, pouting a little. Ino, like I said, is blonde, cheery, and very, very, very pretty. She should and probably could model if she so desired. Next to her, I look like an overgrown toddler. But that's okay.

I'm used to the baby face.

But, I'm sure the last girl isn't. Her name is Hyuuga Hinata, and, if my memory serves me correct, my Dad helped her father's corporation out of some serious settlement shit—ALLITERATION—a few years back. She's _rich_. I mean, you can look at her and tell. She has this total 'paper doll' thing going on about her. She looks so fragile, delicate, and breakable. Like, huggable. I want to smack myself in the face and get over it so I can comfort _her_. The power of money, I tell you.

I stare at all three girls with a deadpanned look. "I'm scared, obviously," I murmur, scooting my knees closer to my chest. Just to clear the record, no, I am not sitting on the dirty bathroom floor. That's gross, and just another use for backpacks. "I don't even know what I did to her!"

"Well," Ino starts, taking off her Northface and tossing it on the ground as if it doesn't cost hundreds of dollars. Rich bitches. (Totally disregard that me and my family do, in fact, have money as well. I just don't get it because I'm 'irresponsible.' Tsk. Whatever.) She sits proudly on the jacket and sighs, preparing for something long. "You don't have to do much to tick Karin off. It's obvious she's intimidated by you; otherwise, you wouldn't have gotten that note. I mean, you're cute."

**Correction: **Sexy. And I know it.

TenTen crouches down, sitting on the back of her calves, back against the wall of the stall. "Maybe you caught some guys' attention and she sees you as a threat," she offers, shrugging. "Both ways, you're buried in shit and unless you have a shovel, you're not getting out of it."

Well, great suggestion, TenTen, I'll just pull this shovel out of my handy-dandy shovel pocket and spray the area with Lysol.

…

NO!

I shoot her a look and she does the meh face, shrugging again.

"Okay, let me put it this way: You're on Karin's radar. You're not getting off of it until we knock her off her podium," she clarifies.

My mouth drops into a perfect 'O' as the pieces slowly fall into place for me. So, obviously, Karin was being nice to me to make it feel worse when she threw the bitch bomb on me earlier. Okay. I can understand that. Some people are just losers like that. The address and phone number she gave me are probably for this super creep with crazy unibrow. I can't even begin to imagine what the code is really for. That kind of goes with the whole 'bitch bomb' explosion.

BUT TAKING HER DOWN? I don't even _know_ her.

I shoot up from my fetal position, stomping my foot. "Guys, I mean, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm new here, and, honestly, I'll probably be moving to Zimbabwe or some other country in a couple months!"

Hinata finally speaks up, touching my shoulder with a soft hand. "W-Well, th-the choice is y-yours," she says.

Ino grumbles. "No, it's kind of not! Look; Karin is an evil bitch. You obviously get her panties in a bunch. She's dismissed all of us already. You. Are. Our. Secret. Weapon. Being new only makes it better. Do you know how easy it will be to establish yourself? _You_ don't even need a whole school year to de-throne her," she argues.

The pressure of all three of their eyes on my makes me feel like I'm being boxed in. But maybe it's because I'm in a bathroom stall with three other people. I take a big breath, already feeling a headache coming on. I can't avoid this, not with Ino's persistence.

I bite the inside of my mouth. I can't just join this war for the sake of these three girls. So what they're the first people to actually talk to me in a language I understand? So what? I have a hard time believing that taking down Karin is the right choice.

She seems powerful.

Influential.

Just like that ruling bitch in every Not Another High School Movie.

And I _hate_ cliches.

I refuse to let myself be turned into a cliche.

Without knowing it, I allowed my face to turn into a totally determined, hot, bad-ass chick expression. I don't see Ino, TenTen, or Hinata. I see myself, and the end result.

I turn toward them, totally ready to give them my answer, when three sharp knocks rap at the bathroom stall door. I scream, jump up onto the toilet, get my moccasin stuck in the water-which is COLD-and release my apple juice all in one go.

(Oh yeah. I'm smooth.)

* * *

><p><strong>an: soooo sorry for the late update. i hope the longer chapter makes up for it. if you want the long version, but the short version is this: No plot; no story. I made one, and hopefully i can stick to it. Until then, expect updates maybe every week to at latest two. I can't make promises for days of the week or whatever, but, i'll try not to go this long again. **

**~Review!**

**Fryer**


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